Sheep's Clothing
by Princess Twilite
Summary: There once was a boy who wore sheep's clothing.


Title: Sheep's Clothing 1/1 Author: Princess Twilite (Princesstwilite2@aol.com) Rating: PG Summary: There once was a boy who wore sheep's clothing. Disclaimer: The characters herein belong to ME, affiliates and co. Distribution: Anyone can have this. All they have to do is tell me where it's going and give me a URL. List archives, of course. Spoilers: Slouching Toward Bethlehem; post episode. Season Four. Pairing: Connor/Cordelia but not really. More like Connor kinda crushing on Cordelia. Notes: Uh, NO. I haven't gone C/C. But I can't deny the fact that Connor is definitely feeling something toward Cordy. Sure there's an ick factor there for me, but she isn't his mother and uh, I guess he doesn't remember changing his diapers [shivers] so I'll forget that for a moment and try to crawl inside Connor's head. Besides, I wanted to do a Connor introspection piece. This isn't remotely shippy. But it's not C/A either, so you're safe if you don't like that. Website: http://thatvisionthing.org/whip MORE notes: I watched this episode on a black and white television in my office and typed this little baby up as a. reflection of it. Fresh from watching Slouching Toward Bethlehem. There isn't much to it, but you should be scared if I threw together a long winded [horrible] story in less than an hour. Post Eps are something I haven't done for a while. Hopefully I haven't lost my touch.  
  
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There once was a boy who wore sheep's clothing.  
  
He stood on the roof, gazing up at the moon as if it might eat him. He dared it to. The moon did not answer, it merely sat there on its high pedestal. It was unreachable and wanted.  
  
Connor knew it looked hot, but the touch must be so cold. So chilled it could cool this strange fever that ate at his gut.  
  
The moon. it did not want him but grinned cockily down at him. Shadows tilted on its side.  
  
"It's late." Cordelia's voice, behind him. Cordelia? No, not really. But someone who was searching for Cordelia. For herself. And she had chosen him to help her. No, not really. She did not even know him.  
  
"Yes. It is." He blinked and in less than a second, the moon had draped itself in clouds. Obscured his clear, perceptive. hungry vision. "You should be sleeping."  
  
"I. couldn't. I keep seeing so many things. And they still don't make any sense. Why aren't you sleeping?"  
  
Because he was hungry and it wasn't for blood. What was this strange hunger choking up his neck like the collar of his loose, ragged t-shirt had grown too tight?  
  
Connor turned and saw her there, standing in her faded khakis and blue sweater. She looked healthy, like she had gained weight. Her cheeks were moon-shine round, lips black in the night. He couldn't see her eyes but knew they would see him and. see a silly boy with bony elbows.  
  
The sleeves of her shirt were a little tattered, the yarn frayed. Her fingers had twined around the edges; tugged. In her long, unvarnished nails, a fiber of yarn was wedged, just against the skin.  
  
Connor licked his lips. Something burned behind his nose. She wanted the truth.  
  
She should be afraid of him. She should not trust him.  
  
He would lie.  
  
Like father. like son. Except, he was not his father. And she thought of him as a child. But maybe. after all, she had forgotten.  
  
"Then you should close your eyes and pretend. pretend you're on the moon and it's warm there. Pretend you're with me there."  
  
She cocked her head at him, sent him a kind smile. He wanted to flinch, where the ice crawled beneath his skin.  
  
How can something so warm hurt like it was so cold? What was it about her indifference that froze him so?  
  
"You're a strange kid." She told him as if in confidence and walked away. The backs of her pants slid across the stones and dirt that were strewn across the roof like something gone to rubble. He thought to tell her she was ruining her clothes, but he couldn't speak.  
  
He hadn't been a kid in. forever. What was a kid? Frustrated, he slammed his palms down against the brick wall. Pulling back he saw no blood on his hands. Only the pale skin, roughened by calluses and tinted with motor oil. The life line was obscured, absent. He had once met a gypsy, and asked her what she knew. Who she was. Who HE was. The gypsy had took his fingers, looked into his Venus and his Mars and ran away, her skirts swirling around her thick ankles.  
  
Jingle, jingle, his ears had hurt at the sound.  
  
Dust swam before his eyes; bitter.  
  
The wall was thick too.  
  
The brick had shattered, crumbled, fell at his feet.  
  
Shiver. No, don't. That's not right. You only shiver when it's cold. And then you buy a sheep and kill it to wear its clothes.  
  
He tilted his head to the sky, glaring at the moon. Oh how he felt the urge to howl.  
  
The End 


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